


i’m building a body from balsam and ash

by tentaclemonster



Series: acrasia [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel 1602
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Knotting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22997866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentaclemonster/pseuds/tentaclemonster
Summary: Peter has his heat. Sir Nicholas sees him through.
Relationships: Peter Parquagh/Sir Nicholas Fury
Series: acrasia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1253039
Kudos: 82





	i’m building a body from balsam and ash

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from the Dessa Song ‘Poor Atlas’.

Peter doesn’t feel like himself.

The heat makes his body feel like it’s two sizes too small, his head stuffed to the brim with feathers and fog, and his legs as shaky as if he’d just ran to Scotland and back. He’s only still standing through sheer force of will, in spite of the weakness in his limbs that want nothing more than to collapse in a heap on the floor beneath them and to drag the rest of Peter along with them in their wreckage. 

Everything from his scalp down to his toes is flushed, his skin feverish and his hair soaked with sweat, the wetness of which doesn’t come close to rivaling the slick Peter can feel dripping from his ass, so much of it leaking steadily out of him now that he’s sure it’s soaked through his breeches and made it look like he’s wet himself. 

That spreading wet stain is undoubtedly visible to Sir Nicholas where the man stands behind him, where Peter has nervously turned his back on him in order to undress as though not having Sir Nicholas’ eye on his face would make this easier, as though he’s trying to protect his modesty – laughable as it is that Peter thinks his modesty means anything now, that he can even think he’ll have any modesty left at all by the time this is done.

Peter wonders shamefully if Sir Nicholas is looking at it, that wet spot on the fabric, in anticipation or disgust of what it means, or if he’s pointedly looking away, if he doesn’t feel much of anything about Peter’s condition at all except as an inconvenient problem that he needs to nip in the bud like any other day’s business, as something he needs to alleviate as a gesture of good will towards the orphan boy he’s taken in – an altruistic act to keep Peter alive, nothing more.

Peter wonders what would be worse, be more humiliating – for Sir Nicholas to want him or to be repulsed by him or to be apathetic to him entirely – but it’s difficult to wonder deeply about anything at all right now when he feels so hot all over and his hole feels so empty and he’s supposed to be getting undressed, he remembers, so he could fix that, so Sir Nicholas could fix  _ him _ , and so that all of this can just go away like any other illness, at least for a little while longer.

Peter’s hands come up to unbutton his shirt, but they feel heavy like he’s been sitting on them for hours and they’re shaking besides. His fingers tingle at the tips and getting just that first button out of the hole is a struggle that takes all the effort his fuzzy mind can muster up. It feels like it takes a lifetime to get it out, to get to the next button, and even Peter is aware that it’s too slow in his foggy head, that he’s taking too long.

There’s a frisson inside of Peter in a place he’s rarely listened to, that place in him where all his omega instincts lie, that tells him to hurry up so that he can be fucked and knotted by his alpha, that tells him that that’s what he wants, what he needs, and he should rush to make it happen, and that he’s surely disappointing his alpha by being so slow about it.

The frisson feels a lot like anxiety, a lot like a sickness, and Peter shuts his eyes tightly against it – standing still, hands frozen on his button, biting his teeth down on his tongue until it hurts. He tries to will it away like he’s swallowing down bile that’s crawling up his throat and he doesn’t vomit or collapse so he supposes it works.

But Peter’s startled into snapping his eyes back open seconds later when strong arms wrap around him from behind. 

He flinches in their hold in surprise and then immediately melts back into the broad body they belong to against his will, his own body relaxing and the rest of the sick feeling abating at the touch so quickly he nearly feels dizzy from the abrupt change. 

Peter can smell sweet tobacco and the barest hint of lingering smoke, overlaid with a stronger scent that’s more human, more masculine, a smell that’s more familiar to him than even his own, and he recognizes the purple fabric coating the arms around him, too. 

Sir Nicholas. Of course. It’s only he and Peter here, who else would it be?

Peter’s heartbeat jumps rabbit-fast in his chest at having the man pressed so close to him – closer, Peter thinks, than they’ve ever physically been, even on those cold nights out in the country where they’d had to make camp outside and sleep close together for just a smidgen of warmth. There’s no lack of warmth in their closeness now, though. Sir Nicholas’ heat is a line against Peter’s back, as radiant as any fireplace would be, and his face so near to Peter’s head as he peers over Peter’s shoulder that Peter can feel the brush of the man’s short beard against his skin scratching lightly. 

Peter shivers from that scratching, whole body shuddering from it, despite the heat and he knows Sir Nicholas must feel it reverberating back into him even if he says nothing to indicate that he noticed at all.

Peter realizes the reason for their position quickly enough. 

Sir Nicholas’ gloved hands come in front of him to take over his duty of unbuttoning his shirt, the man’s fingers deft and working faster than Peter had been but still – the movements are unrushed, the hands gentle. Sir Nicholas, Peter knows, could just as easily rip his shirt off of him in a violent yank. He’s certainly strong enough for it, strong enough to do that and worse. 

That he doesn’t – that he’s taking his time – reassures Peter in some way, makes him hope that Sir Nicholas will be just as patient, just as kind, once all of his clothes are off. It makes Peter hope that Sir Nicholas won’t be anything like the stories Peter has heard about how alphas are when they get their hands on an omega in heat, that the bawdy jokes and disgusted speculation Peter’s had addressed to him or heard said about those like him his whole life aren’t a mirror to his current reality, and that Sir Nicholas is not as bad as the alphas who had made those remarks, that this experience – awful as it may be – will not leave Peter looking at Sir Nicholas in a light that has none of the shine that it does now.

Above all else, Peter desperately wants to believe that Sir Nicholas was not lying to him when he said he wouldn’t hurt him. He wants to believe that more now than he’s ever wanted to believe anything in his life.

“You need to calm yourself,” Sir Nicholas says, voice low but firm, as if he can sense Peter’s worry and need for reassurance. 

He probably can, Peter thinks. Peter is hardly hiding it and Sir Nicholas is a perceptive man anyway. He probably knows every thought that’s crossing Peter’s mind as easily as if he were reading them like pages from a book.

Sir Nicholas’ fingers undo another button and then another while Peter’s eyes are stuck to the sight of them making their path down his torso. 

“I told you I would take care of you and I will,” Sir Nicholas continues, his breath close and tickling at Peter’s skin. “Just trust me. That’s all you need to do. I’ll take care of everything else, you only need to let it happen.”

Peter swallows hard. 

His whole body burns with his heat, the emptiness inside of him feeling how he’d expect a lost limb to feel, his ass begging to be filled with what it is he’s missing, begging for a knot, for an  _ alpha _ . 

Sir Nicholas’ fingers finally undo the last button on Peter’s shirt and then his gloved hands just rest there, interlaced and pressed low on Peter’s stomach. Peter can feel the heat of Sir Nicholas’ palms even through the leather, even though he’s running a full-body fever already. 

The pressure of those hands feel as hot as a brand against him and it makes Peter’s already hard cock ache a little more in his breeches, makes Peter want one of them to slide lower and slip underneath his belt and grasp him. Peter feels that desire so keenly, so overwhelmingly, that it takes a second longer than it should for him to feel the shame that he should for it.

Just let it happen _ ,  _ he thinks to himself. 

It sounds so easy. It  _ should _ be easy. Peter had consented to this, hadn’t he? He’d agreed. Sir Nicholas had given him options and this is the one he chose.

Why, then, does Peter feel like he’s standing on the precipice of something far more dire than he can possibly imagine? 

Why does this feel so hard?

Sir Nicholas is so quiet, his hands just resting there on Peter’s belly, and it takes Peter longer than it should to realize the man is waiting for some kind of response, some verbal confirmation. 

Giving Peter another chance to back out and be given Sir Nicholas’ blade rather than his knot. 

“I want to trust you,” Peter rushes out, voice shaky and breathless – then corrects with more certainty, “I  _ do _ trust you, I mean.” 

And it’s not even a lie. 

Peter has had to trust Sir Nicholas with his well-being for years already – what’s trusting him with one thing more, except for everything, really?

“Good,” Sir Nicholas says, pressing his hands more firmly into Peter’s stomach at the word. A gesture meant to reassure him, maybe, but it has Peter biting his tongue on a whimper when the touch goes straight to his cock. “Just keep trusting me then. Trust me and do what I say and remember that’s all you have to do.”

All I have to do, Peter thinks anxiously, is easier said than done.

Sir Nicholas’ hands leave his stomach then and move on to Peter’s shoulders seconds later, gently pulling at his unbuttoned shirt at both ends until it’s falling from him, sliding off his shoulders and down his arms. The garment flutters carelessly to the floor, leaving Peter shirtless and his back bare to the man behind him. 

Peter hardly has time to let the fact that his body is half exposed sink in before Sir Nicholas’ arms are around him again, his gloved hands going to Peter’s belt and undoing it with the same sort of care he took in unbuttoning Peter’s shirt, the sight of his hands there reminding Peter immediately of his thought from before – his want for Sir Nicholas to slip a hand under that belt, into his breeches, to cup his cock in a big leather-covered palm. 

The arousal at that image hits Peter like a punch in his stomach at the same time that his belt is pulled out from around him and dropped to the floor, making a loud thunk when the buckle hits the ground. 

Sir Nicholas’ hands settle low on Peter’s hips, not squeezing them but just resting there lightly. 

“Stay calm,” Sir Nicholas says softly, and there’s a split second where Peter doesn’t know what the words mean, where it feels like they were said in Spanish or French instead of English, but then Sir Nicholas is sliding those hands under the band of Peter’s breeches, brushing against the sensitive bare skin of Peter’s hips and the sides of his ass, making him jump a little in surprise at the intimate feeling of it, dizzy with arousal at how close it is to the fantasy he’d had before. 

Stay calm, Peter repeats the words in his mind like a benediction he chants only to himself. 

Stay calm, he thinks it over and over again and pretends not to notice that even his inner voice sounds small and afraid.

Sir Nicholas doesn’t waste any time then, doesn’t give Peter a second to think, before he’s pulling Peter’s breeches and his undergarments both down from his hips in one fell swoop, letting them fall down his legs until they’re pooled around Peter’s ankles on the floor, leaving Peter’s body as bare as the day he was born, the slick leaking from his ass now dripping freely down the backs of his thighs without his breeches there to soak it up and keep it contained. 

Sir Nicholas can see it now. Peter doesn’t have to be looking at the man to know. Sir Nicholas can see his ass, see his dripping slick, smell it in the air with his alpha’s nose. He can probably even taste the scent of it on his tongue, there’s so much of it.

If Peter’s body wasn’t already an inferno, wasn’t already flushed from his heat, he thinks his entire face would be aflame at being so exposed in such an intimate way to a man Peter is positive is still fully dressed since he hadn’t heard Sir Nicholas disrobing and he hasn’t turned around to check – not that Peter  _ wants _ to turn around, mind.

The longer he can get away with not looking at Sir Nicholas, the better. He’s horribly grateful that they’re not facing one another, that he doesn’t have to see whatever look must be on Sir Nicholas’ face and that – for as humiliating as it is to have the man watching Peter’s bare back – Sir Nicholas can’t see Peter’s front instead, can’t see his cock flushed dark and dripping from the head where it stands hard against his belly.

Surely that would be worse, Peter thinks, for Sir Nicholas to see how much his body is anticipating this more than he already has, to see not only Peter’s weakness as an omega but also his weakness as a man.

“On the bed now,” Sir Nicholas says gruffly, and Peter thinks he could hear a pin drop in the deafening silence that follows the order.

This is his last chance, Peter realizes with no small sense of dread. It’s his last chance to change his mind, to tell Sir Nicholas he doesn’t want to go through with this, to decide to take the cowardly way out instead. 

Sir Nicholas is a quick man, thoughtful and intelligent and sharp enough to use his intelligence in the most cunning ways. He always thinks things through, always looks at every angle and every corner of every problem placed in front of him like it’s a puzzle to be solved, but he also doesn’t hesitate when it counts – when a single second of hesitation could mean the difference between life and death, success and failure in whatever venture he’s engaged in. 

And if he’s still dressed, then he still has a blade on him and he’s rather quick with that, too.

If Peter said right now that he’d rather die than take a knot, Peter imagines that blade would be buried in his throat before he finished speaking. 

Sir Nicholas wouldn’t try to dissuade Peter, wouldn’t question him or ask him if he’s sure. He’d given Peter a choice, made clear the severity of every option, the consequences of them, and if Peter said he wanted to die with some dignity rather than to live as an omega and experience all that entailed, then Sir Nicholas would take Peter’s words at face value and be merciful enough not to allow Peter to feel a single moment of fear waiting for his request to be fulfilled. 

Because Peter can trust Sir Nicholas to do what he says he will and Sir Nicholas had said that Peter has a choice and that that choice will be respected.

Peter swallows what feels like a stone in his throat, a refusal on the tip of his tongue for a heart-stopping second until the last piece of uncertainty he holds shifts in him, slotting with finality into place. A door closes and Peter lets those words die in his mouth. He locks his last chance to change his mind somewhere deep inside of himself and melts the key down to scrap and he lets it die, too.

And then Peter steps out of the breeches pooled around his ankles and starts the short walk towards the bed at the other end of the room. 

It takes five long steps to get to the bed, Peter counts them, and once there he doesn’t let himself stop to hesitate for a second more before putting one bare knee on the bed and then the other, the soft surface dipping under his weight. He shuffles forward on his knees until he’s in the center of the bed staring at the wooden wall in front of him, the simple iron headboard – plain things that Peter only takes note of as being in his line of sight because they remind him that Sir Nicholas is not and hasn’t been since Peter had turned away from him in order to undress himself.

Sir Nicholas is so quiet off behind Peter, not speaking and the heavy drumming of Peter’s own heart masking his breathing, that Peter almost wants to turn and look now to make sure the man is still in the room, as silly as that is, but the thought of looking makes Peter’s heart thump harder than can be healthy for a beat in his chest and makes something like panic seize him as roughly as any strongman’s arms would. 

Peter ignores the impulse. 

He doesn’t turn.

He can’t.

Instead, it’s pure instinct slithering up through his erratic pulse from that omega part of his brain that drives Peter, that has him lowering himself down to his elbows and then his forearms, that has his chest pressed down to the bed and his knees shifting to slide under his body until he can feel the tops of them against his belly, that has his head pressed to the relieving coolness of the pillow and his back bowing so that his ass can raise ever so slightly in the air.

Presenting, Peter thinks faintly. 

The word for what he’s doing comes unbidden to the forefront of his mind as easily as he had done it, a word that feels gritty and cold in his mouth, that sounds like it would be better suited to describing things happening at balls in castles with lords and ladies in their finest clothes rather than what’s happening here on this bed in this cabin with a naked omega boy dripping slick on the sheets waiting to be taken by another man. 

Breeding position is another phrase for it, Peter knows. A phrase that isn’t used in polite company and that makes Peter feel like an animal, something that would be bad enough if not that it also makes him feel even more keenly the shame of what he is because it reminds him that he – that  _ this _ – serves no purpose other than his humiliation. 

Male omegas can’t be bred. They can’t become pregnant no matter how much they’re knotted and no matter how much seed is spilled into them. The only purpose of their bodies, of their heats, is meaningless, mindless pleasure – for the omega and for whatever alpha is licentious enough to have them. If no alpha is willing to fuck them through their heat, then all that awaits them is an agonizing death when their body finally gives out after hours or days of desperate, pitiful exhaustion. 

That uselessness means there are plenty who think male omegas are abominations in the eyes of God, crafted to remind others not to fall into sin like apples in the garden of Eden, and Peter, in his weakest of moments, can’t help but think that if God is real then that must be true.

Peter has never been the religious sort and never much cared for those who are so fervent in their own care and hatred of one faith or the other that they commit atrocities in their name, but even so – if there’s a God, Peter wonders, what purpose would male omegas serve? Why create them? Why make people and have them suffer so badly, to have them serve no other purpose but for them to suffer?

There’s a reason, outside of those weak moments, Peter doesn’t often think upon God at all, why he doubts to the point of blasphemy His existence. Peter can’t bring himself to find any sense of salvation in a being who has so little love for what Peter is, even when Peter has little love for his designation himself. The only salvation Peter has ever found, truly, is in Sir Nicholas, though he’d never phrase it that way aloud. 

A nonbeliever Peter may be, but likening a man to God – even a man as compelling as his guardian – is too much for even Peter to do outside of the privacy of his own mind. Less because it’s heretical, more because it seems such a horribly intimate thought to give voice to. 

More intimate, in some ways, than even sharing his heat with Sir Nicholas will be.

Peter’s body is jostled when the bed dips under the heavy weight of another person lowering their own knees down to it in the same way he had just minutes before. His breath catches in his throat in fearful anticipation only to release in a slow, shaky exhale when a familiar leather-covered hand touches him lightly on the shoulder and runs a soothing line down his back that makes him shiver. 

That hand comes to a short, almost hesitant rest on his hip, thumb pressing an indentation into the bone, before it slides even further down to cup Peter’s ass cheek _ ,  _ to press down and squeeze it, and Peter can’t hold back a moan at the feeling of strong fingers massaging at his flesh and sending a pleasurable jolt right to his cock.

“You’re doing well,” Sir Nicholas says, rare praise offered earnestly in a voice that sounds thick with some emotion Peter has never heard from Sir Nicholas before and can’t hope to identify now. “You’ve done all you needed to, now you have to do is just--”

“--let it happen,” Peter finishes for him, the words muffled in the pillow but Sir Nicholas still hears them.

He hums at it, maybe nods or frowns or smiles, even, for all that Peter can’t see him do it. 

“Let it happen,” Sir Nicholas says, “and trust me not to do you any wrong.”

It strikes Peter there in that moment how often Sir Nicholas has repeated that sentiment tonight and how it contrasts so sharply to the man Peter has known for years now: a man that never cared to repeat himself at all, who has always expected his words to be heard and his orders followed the first time he said them, and wouldn’t tolerate anything else.

It strikes Peter more that Sir Nicholas is repeating himself for Peter’s own benefit, for his comfort, because he cares about whether or not Peter is comfortable throughout this ordeal.

Because he cares about Peter, period.

Peter makes a small noise back that he hopes Sir Nicholas takes as assent because his throat is too tight to say anything else and the sickly warmth that’s been working through his body for what seems like an age already is finally becoming too strong for even his nerves to distract him from.

His stomach cramps with all the sharpness of a stab wound, and he shuts his eyes tighter and buries his face further into his pillow, not even caring that it’s already half-damp with sweat that’s dripped from his forehead when otherwise he’d probably be disgusted enough to flip it over. He doesn’t have long now, he’s sure, before true awareness will be burned out of him completely. He almost wants to say something blithe about getting on with it but the effort it would take to manage a little wit seems beyond him.

Thankfully, Sir Nicholas doesn’t drag out the inevitable any longer than Peter’s nerves already have.

His gripping, leather-covered fingers slide further down – down Peter’s flank, down to his lower thigh, and then up again to his ass until they’re pressing at the slick wetness of his hole and there they go still, pausing in one last second of delay, before one of those fingers is pressing into Peter and his breath is caught in a stranglehold at the feeling of emptiness inside of him finally being filled only to escape from his mouth in a near wheeze a moment later when Sir Nicholas wastes no time in pushing in a second finger along with the first. 

Peter’s hole is so wet with slick that it gives no resistance to the digits at all but he can still feel the foreign presence of them inside of him acutely, can still feel his body stretch around them in a way that feels unnatural and makes him feel horribly vulnerable even as a hot pulse of pleasure sparks up from his belly button and he finds himself automatically pushing back against those fingers, whorishly trying to get more of them into him, to get them deeper even though they’re already in passed the knuckle and such a thing would hardly be possible.

And then when Sir Nicholas  _ twists _ his fingers inside of Peter’s body and Peter can feel the texture of the leather covering those fingers as keenly as his own heart beating in his chest – 

Peter has to bite down on the pillow in front of him to stifle the sound of his sob and hardly manages it. Stifling the way his whole body shivers like he’s just been thrown out into the cold as bare as he is now is impossible. He shakes like a leaf in the wind, his feverish body somehow straddling a line where hot and cold are a breath away from one another or are maybe even the same thing, and all he can do is think with an edge of desperation that the two fingers inside of him aren’t enough, that they aren’t filling him enough, that he needs more, wants more, and he needs to have it now.

For all the anxiety Peter had about even getting to this moment, when Sir Nicholas then pulls his fingers out of Peter all at once, he nearly sobs again for reasons that have nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with his panicked fear that Sir Nicholas is leaving him entirely, that he’s changed his mind, that he won’t be having Peter – that he won’t be  _ knotting him _ – after all.

That panic blurs the next few seconds.

Peter doesn’t register the fact that he  _ does _ start sobbing, crying into his pillow in distress, his tears mixing in with his sweat and the drool from where his mouth still has soft fabric clenched between his teeth.

He doesn’t register the sound of Sir Nicholas shushing him or whatever words might or might not come out of the man’s mouth.

He doesn’t even register the sound of clothes rustling behind him, a belt being unbuckled and then unceremoniously tossed on the floor followed by the breeches they were holding up being roughly pushed down just far enough so that the cock inside of them can easily be pulled out.

The next thing Peter notices is something else pressed to his hole, something bigger than the one finger that pushed into him before, bigger than even the two fingers that were in him together, something that feels warm even against Peter’s heated flesh. Peter only just realizes that this something is Sir Nicholas’ cock at the same moment as it pushes into him and all thoughts in his mind blank out entirely, his head going as suddenly and endlessly out as the flame on a candle that’s been dropped in a barrel of water.

The push of Sir Nicholas’ cock into him is nothing like his fingers were. Peter feels his body stretching around to accommodate it, the movement of the cock inside of him somehow so much more pronounced as it penetrates him, making Peter feel so much smaller and so much hotter. His own cock is throbbing where it’s pressed against the bed at the feeling of having Sir Nicholas within him and while Sir Nicholas had been quick about pushing his fingers into Peter as though he’d simply wanted to test the feel of him before getting to this, he takes his time in giving Peter his cock now, and that only makes Peter ache more –  _ want _ more.

Sir Nicholas feeds his cock into Peter inch by agonizing inch and when it isn’t enough, when Peter unthinkingly tries to push back, to force Sir Nicholas to give him more, to give it faster, Sir Nicholas lets out a harsh, startled curse and his hands go to grip at Peter’s hips in a hold so tight that it’s painful. His superior strength is more than enough to keep Peter still and to let him have full control of Peter’s body beneath him, a fact that sends another jolt of perverse thrill up Peter’s belly, his heartbeat fluttering worryingly in his throat at being so completely at Sir Nicholas’ mercy and only a little of it having to do with fear.

Peter can’t move underneath that hold but his body doesn’t stop trying, futilely wriggling beneath Sir Nicholas and getting nothing out of it but strained muscles and bruises in the shape of fingers on his hips where the hands holding them only grow tighter the deeper Sir Nicholas’ cock slides into him, a slide that seems frustratingly endless and that Peter only knows is over when the push of that cock into him finally stops and he can feel something pressed at the rim of his hole – something swollen, thicker than the cock inside him, something that Peter can feel throbbing with heat and need against his own skin.

When Peter realizes that what he feels is Sir Nicholas’ knot, not even the drool soaked pillow in his mouth is enough to stifle the long, horrible whine that escapes from deep in his throat. All his useless writhing against the hands holding him down only grow more frantic, more needy, all thought and feeling in his head and body and soul melting away and leaving only omega instinct left in him, instinct that makes it feel imperative to get his alpha’s knot in him, to feel it swelling inside of him and locking them together, while his alpha’s cock spills inside of him again and again and again.

Peter can see that image in his head so vividly that for a moment it feels like it’s already happening, like he’s blacked out and woken up ten minutes later or like he’s been magically thrust forward an hour in time, a vision of the future so bright flashing into the forefront in his mind that the line between future and present blur and shake, rapidly flicking in and out of focus with such speed that it’s dizzying. 

The moment only lasts for the span of a few seconds but it feels like a lifetime or more, an eternity dropping as easily down as a grain of sand in an hourglass only to snap back up when Sir Nicholas’ cock – only finally just inside of Peter – begins to pull back out, an inch turning to two turning to half way, before it pushes back in, slow and almost restrained. That restraint is gone in an instant, however, when Sir Nicholas wastes no time in pulling back out and thrusting in again – faster this time and hard enough to make Peter gasp, a sound that’s drowned out by Sir Nicholas grunting above him.

Peter hardly has time to catch his breath before Sir Nicholas is thrusting into him again and doesn’t stop, his cock setting a steady pace fucking Peter, the force of it reverberating through every part of Peter’s overheated body and his own cock throbbing in time to the thrusts. Peter keeps his face buried in his pillow all the while, gasping into it, moaning as he takes Sir Nicholas’ cock. His mind is empty of everything but the sensation of being fucked, his body unable to do anything more than just stay in position with how well Sir Nicholas has him held down, entirely immobile beneath him. 

Every push of Sir Nicholas’s cock inside of him makes pleasure jolt from his belly button down to between his legs and every time Sir Nicholas thrusts in, Peter can feel the alpha’s knot pushing at his rim, nudging it, teasing him with what he wants the most. The sounds of it all only sharpen Peter’s pleasure, the wet slapping noise of Sir Nicholas’ cock thrusting in, his balls hitting Peter’s ass, and Sir Nicholas’ own harsh grunts and heavy breathing louder than all of it save for the sounds Peter is making himself.

In that moment, held down beneath Sir Nicholas on the bed with his cock pounding into him, Peter feels like he’s nothing more than a body to be used, like he’s nothing more than a hole for an alpha to find his pleasure in, and he  _ likes _ it. The thought alone has him moaning and his body tightening around Sir Nicholas’ cock, desperate to feel it more, to urge Sir Nicholas on, and it works because Sir Nicholas bites out a curse and thrusts into Peter even harder, his grip on Peter’s hips tightening enough to make the leather of his gloves creak with it, and the harder the thrusts the more aware Peter is of the Sir Nicholas’ knot every time it pushes against him.

There’s a warmth gathering low in Peter’s stomach and a pressure building in his cock, the both of them twinging at every feel of Sir Nicholas’ knot, heavy and thick against him. Peter’s mouth is slick with drool leaking out from between his parted lips over the thought of being knotted, his eyes tearing up, and his breathing ragged. Sir Nicholas’ thrusts are getting faster, rougher, the alpha’s sounds getting louder, and Peter can feel Sir Nicholas’ knot trying to force its way into him on every thrust of his cock into Peter’s ass.

Peter is expecting it, yearning for it, but when Sir Nicholas finally thrusts hard into him one last time and his knot is suddenly inside of Peter, the air is still knocked out of Peter’s chest. His whole body goes tense as he chokes for breath, a low guttural sound escaping him as his cock pulses between his legs and he shudders, spilling his come against the bedding while he can feel the hot pulse of Sir Nicholas spending inside of him. Peter stays like that, taut and shivering, for a long moment before finally his body goes boneless, relaxing down into the bed, and he gasps for air into his pillow, suddenly exhausted. 

Sir Nicholas is still hard inside of him and still moving his hips against Peter as much as he can with his knot locked into him, spilling more come into Peter, filling him up. Every movement Sir Nicholas makes causes his knot to pull at Peter’s rim where it’s stuck there and Peter moans with every one, the aftershocks of pleasure running through him in delicious little shivers from his head down to his toes. Sir Nicholas’ grip on Peter’s hips has loosened and he strokes Peter’s sides now and along his back, up the curve of his spine. 

The touch is gentle and lulling, even as Sir Nicholas continues to come, making Peter’s belly start to feel sore with how much is spilling in him, but the soreness is an afterthought compared to the bone deep calm that Peter feels on top of it.

He feels satisfied laying there beneath Sir Nicholas, satisfied and safe and content with knowing that he’s pleased his alpha, that he has a knot in him now and his heat has finally been sated. The gloved hands stroking his skin only stoke that calm like it’s a gentle flame and it’s the easiest thing in the world for Peter’s eyes to close, for his breathing to even out and his body to slip into sleep.

Sir Nicholas stays above him, inside of him, as he rests and Peter never notices when the alpha’s knot goes down and slips out of him or how after, Sir Nicholas wraps the covers on the bed around him and lays pressed against his back, a possessive arm thrown around his waist.


End file.
